The Comforts of Silence
by LeoBloom
Summary: Daisy was careless. She had been bound to leave Gatsby in pieces. By some stroke of fate, his eyes had opened and he had salvaged himself.
**AN: k so this is mostly just really self-indulgent.** **rated M for literally like 1 paragraph and it's relatively vague, just not quite as vague as the McKee hookup scene lmao**

 **this is my first time writing anything about Gatsby and I _never ever_ write in first person so bear with me**

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I called in sick to work that day. Gatsby, with his smooth words circling my head like a sweet ring of smoke, had charmed me into staying. Each word he spoke was enthralling, and I soon found it impossible to stop listening even for a moment. I had tried to get away, and I'd made it a short distance before I had turned back, calling to my neighbor from across the manicured lawn.

 _"You're worth the whole damn bunch put together."_

And then he had pulled me right back in. His eyes, a delightful azure that in an instant could make me forget where I was, had drawn me back. I understood why so many people were so infatuated with Gatsby. I understood, but I also knew that my infatuation ran in a different vein than that of most of his countless guests. They didn't know Gatsby. I _did_. They merely came to relish his hospitality, not the wonderful, terrible man behind it all. The breathtaking parties and fantastic stories surrounding Gatsby were what attracted much of the intrigue. But the sensational rumors did very little to me, for I was one of the few blessed with the knowledge of the real Jay Gatsby. Not the prince, or the murderer, or whatever other outlandish identities people pinned on him, but the _real Gatsby_.

I wanted to carry on being deluded into thinking that he cared for me as I did for him, but it was a foolish thing to believe. Gatsby didn't concern himself so much with me. He couldn't. No, I was simply a connection to Daisy. But moments like these, where it was only the pair of us and with Daisy nowhere in sight, it almost felt as though it could be possible. We sat along the edge of Gatsby's swimming pool, our shoes off and the legs of our pants rolled up so that we could rest with our feet in the water. The sun warmed our faces and reflected in Gatsby's eyes like it did on the surface of the pool, blue and glinting and bright. Neither of us had spoken for a while, but I felt at ease. I felt as though I could have existed there in the sunny silence with Gatsby for the rest of eternity and never even taken note of anything else in the world.

"I thought she might have called by now," Gatsby said suddenly. His golden voice sounded unnaturally loud in contrast with the preceding lack of noise. I said nothing for a moment, utterly disappointed by the mention of Daisy. Hearing Gatsby talk about her brought about a hollow feeling in my chest which I couldn't quite place.

"I'm sure she will before long," I said, but I could hardly hear myself. Gatsby adopted a somewhat strange demeanor after that. He acted as if he longed to say something but couldn't quite work out the phrasing. I watched, wondering if he would reply. His pleasing face was furrowed a bit at the brow as he frowned in thought.

"Have you spoken to Jordan much lately, old sport?"

His question caught me rather off-guard, and my eyebrows arched at him.

"I—well, not much, no. She's a very nice girl, but I'm just not sure if it's going to work out," I answered after a moment. Jordan really was lovely, and I should have counted myself incredibly fortunate to have won the attention of a girl like her, but I never could seem to give to her my heart in the full extent that she seemed to be expecting. I think I did love her, at least partially. I just didn't love her in the right way. She had never meant to me what Daisy did to Gatsby. That warm, yellow silence fell between Gatsby and me again, and I swished my foot absently back and forth in the water.

"Come on inside, old sport, I've got something I want to show you," remarked Gatsby, and I stood, holding my shoes in one hand, to follow him. Gatsby seemed to pay no thought at all to the fact that we were tracking water into his elegant home, but I couldn't help feeling guilty. Regardless of how many times I found myself inside Gatsby's mansion, the sheer grandeur of it all never failed to astound me. I often thought to myself how much of a burden it must be to live in such luxurious conditions. It seemed much too extravagant and overwhelming for a man such as myself, but Gatsby, in stark contrast, fit seamlessly.

"Aren't you worried about your floors?" I asked, and it somehow felt like a remarkably awkward thing to ask. Gatsby laughed, a wonderful sound like church bells accompanying a wedding. He provided no response to my question, but it was clear what he meant. Just as I was beginning to wonder where Gatsby was taking me, he stopped. I found myself drifting away on a daydream as I took in the details of the décor even though I could clearly recall having been in that room before, and when I finally focused my attention back on Gatsby, he was holding something I hadn't seen him pick up.

"What is it?" I stared down at the book in his hands, and he offered a wry smile in return.

"It's nothing, now. It once held great value to me, but now I can see that perhaps my heart is in the wrong place," said Gatsby. He opened the book, and I recognized it then as his treasure trove of memories from Daisy—all the letters she had written to him, stuck among other trinkets of the past within the binding. Surprised, I widened my eyes at Gatsby. Daisy, the driving force behind his decisions for the past five years, the reason for everything he did, suddenly was nothing?

"I don't understand," I said lamely. Had I missed something? Had he not been brooding over her just five minutes prior?

"I love Daisy, I do. But you see, old sport, I love her five years ago. I spent so long believing that we could carry on as if we'd never been apart that I couldn't see how impractical it all was. She hasn't called me, and I firmly believe she isn't intending on doing so anytime soon." He snapped the book shut, staring out of the window at Daisy's house, just as he'd done so many times before. But now Gatsby, the most hopeful man in the world, looked across the bay with a tragic air of surprisingly well-received defeat. "I have to let her go, old sport. I can't go on living in the past."

I stood in reverent silence, as though listening to a eulogy. In a way, I was. Never could I be sure precisely what had changed his mind, but I certainly was relieved. Daisy was careless. She had been bound to leave Gatsby in pieces. By some stroke of fate, his eyes had opened and he had salvaged himself.

"I'm sorry," was all I could think to say at the moment. Gatsby approached and clapped me on the back, the corners of his mouth tilted up. I was almost unsettled by how well he reacted to his own decision to move on. He was the biggest, most fantastic dreamer I had ever stumbled upon, and he was letting his dream of Daisy drift away on the summer breeze.

"I _wanted_ Daisy so badly that I failed to see that I already have what I _needed_ ," Gatsby continued. His hand lingered between my shoulder blades. I didn't know what to say. He could've meant any number of things by that. His popularity, his fame, his immense wealth…I was hesitant to believe that he could have possibly been insinuating that I meant that much to him. "I needed you, Nick."

And something about the way he said my name made me never want to go home.

" _Me?_ "

"Of course! Who else has been unwavering by my side since the beginning of all of this? Certainly not Daisy. Why, I've bent over backwards for her, and she still can't understand. Life is a gift, old sport, and I can't waste mine away on such an impossible dream. I see that now. Because of you, I see that now." The comfort of his hand left its spot between my shoulders. I stared at Gatsby, unsure. Anything I could think of to respond with would feel incorrect. There appeared to still be a remnant of sorrow hidden in his expression, but he seemed determined to beat it down.

"I wanted to apologize," he continued, his back now turned to me as he replaced the book on the shelf where it was doomed to lay in the dust of an abandoned past. "I don't want you thinking that I still only speak to you for your connections with Daisy. You are a good man, Mr. Carraway, and I value that. Honest men such as yourself are hard to come by these days."

"Well, thank you," I offered weakly. This all felt so strange.

"Tell me, old sport. What do you really think of me?"

I paused. What _did_ I think of Gatsby? Was there any real way to describe a man of such caliber? He must have noticed my hesitation, as the corners of his soulful eyes crinkled in amusement. I tried to think of him in terms of how I would write a character in one of my stories, but he seemed so beyond the reaches of my imagination that I found myself drawing a blank. Still, I struggled on.

"You're an enigma," I decided at last. "If I may be honest for a moment, Jay, I'm really not sure what I think of you. I've never met someone quite like you before, and I don't expect I ever will again. You're remarkable." Suddenly I became aware of how near to me he was standing, so near that I could now smell his cologne. It was intoxicating, and it filled my head with rampant daydreams. My vision was occupied entirely with his face. A hand carded through my hair, and before I could take a moment to react, Gatsby's mouth fit together with mine as though that were the precise place for which it had been designed. I felt faint and surely would have collapsed had I not found myself backed up against the wall. Gatsby's kiss was so typical of him—grand and profoundly inspiring, and it was unlike any act of intimacy I had ever engaged in before. Too soon, he inched away, but he stayed close enough that I could still taste his breath. He looked at me, seemingly as if to say, _"Now what do you think of me?"_

"I—we really shouldn't," I protested. "You're only upset about Daisy, you don't mean this." His fingertips brushed my cheek. For once, I hoped he wouldn't listen to me.

"Daisy isn't here. You are." His voice was like warm honey, and it sent a shudder down my spine. "Daisy doesn't care anymore; maybe she never did."

"But if she _were_ here—" He cut me off with the shaking of his head.

"You are worth much more," he said. "I've been foolish, old sport. I can only hope you'll forgive me." I believed for a moment that it must have all been a dream. Gatsby had tried so hard to make Daisy understand, but instead he had brought understanding to himself. Observing the change that had taken place within him felt surreal. Countless times over the course of that summer I had fantasized about taking Daisy's place by Gatsby's side, but now that it had become reality I couldn't process it. I recalled Gatsby telling me of his first meeting with Daisy and how it had felt to kiss her for the first time. I knew what he had meant then. His lips met mine for a second time, and just as he had, I let myself go. My heart and soul were Gatsby's and Gatsby's alone.

"I've seen the way you look at me," he said into my ear. "It's beautiful. You look at me as if I am the only thing with any meaning."

That embarrassed me. For a moment I wanted to pull away, to retreat back into myself and pretend that none of this had happened. Even if I had tried, there was not any way I could have escaped the pull Gatsby had on me. He beckoned me like a moth to a brilliant light.

"Everyone looks at you like that." I leaned my head back against the wall, my eyes partially lidded. "You're Gatsby."

"But they don't know me, not like you do. That's what I find impressive about you, old sport. You know me, who I really am, and yet you still regard me with such affection," said Gatsby. He kissed me at the corner of my mouth, then just below my ear.

" _Jay._ " I could not be quite sure whether or not I was protesting any more. His hand at some point had found its way under my clothing, his fingers splaying out over my abdomen. The subsequent time passed in a happy blur. Lying prone on his elegant sofa, I allowed him to wash over me, his gentle intimacy urging to life a flame in the pit of my stomach. I spoke his name again. The sound was lost in the thick, hot air that surrounded us. He handled me as if he were afraid I would break, and it occurred to me that he was treating me delicately out of fear that if he did not, I would run as Daisy had. Thoughts of her soon left me, chased away by Gatsby's mouthing at my neck. He pressed himself into me tenderly but with a passion reminiscent of the vibrant fireworks show I had witnessed during our first meeting. I was unsure of how long I laid there with him, but it felt both like an eternity and as if it had ended all too soon.

He provided to me a breakfast the next morning. We were content to exist in silence. Every so often I would look up into his sunny face, and each time I found him staring at me wistfully with a hint of a smile creeping into his expression. I told him I should go, that one missed day of work was plenty. This time he refrained from charming me into missing the train.

"That's quite all right, old sport," he said, and he nodded almost as if he were giving me permission to depart. As I made my way across his lawn shortly afterwords, I turned back to look at the house. Gatsby stood there in a window, watching me from behind the glass with one hand raised in farewell.

"Call me?" I shouted to him, grinning. He nodded, then disappeared into the dazzling monument he called home.


End file.
